THE EARLY WORK OF THE AUTHOR OF "BEN-HUR."

BY MATTIE DYER BRITTS.

The writer of this sketch has no need to depend upon the evidence of others for the facts given; she has but to cross a shady street and tap at the most hospitable door in the wide world, to sit at her ease in the fine old library enriched by the gifts of a king, and talk with General Wallace or his wife.

It was upon an occasion like this that she remarked: "General, the people who are so much interested in your work sometimes wonder how you came to begin it. Would you be willing to give us an idea of your method?"

"Method?" was the reply, with the genial smile and flash of the keen dark eye which still renews the youth of the veteran warrior-poet. "I have no method. If my composition has any excellence, set it down, first and last, to that simple fact. In writing, as in speech, I think that modes of expression should depend upon feeling—not studied, but the impulse of the moment."

"But you had a method of study in your school-days?"

"Not I. My school-days were very few when I was a boy. My father regularly sent me, and paid my tuition bills, but I as regularly played truant. I ran wild in the woods of my native Indiana as free and happy as the squirrels and rabbits, which scarcely took the trouble to keep out of my pathway, so accustomed to my presence did they become. I hunted, fished, staid in the woods, and slept with my dog, and came out as strong and healthy as an oak sapling, without the least idea that I was laying the foundation for the constitution which could in later years withstand the hardships and exposures of camp and field. Health was so absolute it was not thought of."

"You must, however, have been fond of books."

"Passionately so. I read every moment that I was still. In my runaway journeys through the woods I always carried a book in my pocket. I both read and remembered. My education, such as it is, is due to my father's excellent library, and the freedom with which I browsed at will upon the wholesome pastures of good old English literature."

"Doubtless you had certain favorite volumes."

"Yes. Plutarch's Lives was and is the work which had most influence upon me. Even yet, at the age of sixty-seven, when I grow drowsy and my ambition seems to fail, I pick up my old companion, and an hour with him restores me to myself."

"How did you first come to think of writing?"

Another smile of amusement over the recollections of those crude boyish days, and the General replied: "My first literary effort was made in a society of lads near my own age, of which I was a member when about sixteen. Berry Sulgrove, once editor of the Indianapolis Journal, was president, and assigned each one his part in our weekly meetings—a speech, essay, story, or poem. I was ordered to write a story. I undertook a love-tale of the crusades of the tenth century, in weekly instalments, with the title of 'The Man-at-Arms.'"

"Can you recall the plot of the tale?"

"The leading character was a Spanish grandee, a Duke of high Castilian line, who dwelt among the mountains of Spain. He had numerous valiant retainers, and one only child—a proud and beautiful daughter named Inez. In the service of the Duke was a handsome page of eighteen, brave, courtly, endowed with manly graces and a talent for music. This he used so skilfully that the love-songs he sang to his light guitar took captive the heart of the fair Inez. Their love was discovered, and the handsome page banished from the castle. But they managed to meet, and my hero carried off his prize. Together they mounted his snow-white steed, and dashed away to the hermitage of an old monk, who lived alone on a wild and dreary mountain-side. The Duke pursued the fugitives with armed retinue, and brought his disobedient daughter back to her ancestral halls. The page escaped, went to Venice, and enlisted in the army about to march to Palestine. He wore his armor by night and day, never opening his visor except to eat, so that his nearest comrades rarely saw his face. He performed prodigies of valor, was ever in the forefront of battle, a mysterious but conspicuous figure. He became famous, and was made a knight. By the time he returned to Spain all the countries of the Mediterranean had heard of his prowess, and were proud to do him honor. He was tendered a grand banquet at the Duke's castle; but the old enemy did not recognize in the Knight of the Closed Helmet his former page. The lovely Inez, of course, knew him at once, and he found her of true heart and constant mind. The father was delighted to see the impression his child made upon the gallant knight, and with his free consent they were soon betrothed and married. After the wedding the page disclosed his real name—I regret to have forgotten it—and all was forgiven, the old Duke only too willing to call the brave warrior of Holy Cross his son."

"Did you complete the story?"

"Oh yes! Every week my instalment was ready, my audience rapt and sympathetic, and the generous applause most encouraging."

"Was the MSS. lengthy?"

"Two hundred and thirty pages of foolscap, closely written."

"How much I should like to see it! Do you know what became of it?"

"I am sorry to say it was lost. I left it in my father's library when I went to the Mexican war in 1847; when I returned, the unfortunate 'Man-at-Arms' was not to be found. I never knew how he came to his end."

"Of course, as a member of the society, you obeyed the order of your president; but aside from that fact, what were your inducements to writing the story?"

"Merely boyish pleasure in composition—the natural stirring to write, as the singer is moved to sing. That was my first attempt at prose. Before that—when about fifteen, I think—I wrote a poem on the rescue of Captain John Smith by Pocahontas, perhaps two hundred lines, in the measure of the 'Lady of the Lake.' That reminds me of another early experience; our amusements were very few in those days—a circus once a year, and sometimes during the session of the Legislature a strolling theatrical company came by. We boys caught the fever, and got up an organization of our own, the 'Thespian Troupe,' which played Pocahontas with tremendous applause."

"You mean, I presume, the drama by Robert Dale Owen?"

"The same. My brother, William Wallace, was the Indian heroine. I took the part of her sister Nomona. McReady (a school-mate, not the famous actor) was Powhatan. I have forgotten who played Captain Smith, but the affair was a great success. Cox, the local artist, painted the scenery, the town band (then a volunteer service) played before the door to draw the crowd, and the receipts paid all expenses."

"Then you actually performed before a paying audience?"

"Indeed we did. It was in a brick house just where the old State-house used to stand. We provided seats, and had special accommodations for the ladies. Those were the days of sound and fury and the ranting style now happily entirely banished from the stage. But we enjoyed it hugely. My memories of the Thespian are among the most delightful recollections of earlier days."

"Do you think that the dramatic instinct and florid imagination necessary to such high-flown youthful work had any influence in developing your later literary genius?"

"I do not claim to have any genius. It may be that infinite patience and an unlimited capacity for hard work have taken the place of genius, and been of service to me. When I began to study a subject or an object, I could never bring myself to stop until I had mastered all there was to be known about it."

"You believe, then, that small details are of large importance in literary work?"

"More so than in almost any other calling. I have never allowed myself to take the opinions of others when it was possible to verify facts by my own eyes and ears. While writing Ben-Hur I once took the long journey from my Indiana home to New York city, and haunted one of the great libraries there persistently for days, merely to establish beyond a doubt a very small matter concerning the interior of a Roman galley. Yet, after all, it was not a small matter; trifles make perfection, and a little inaccuracy will result in imperfect work."

"Do you advise young authors to quote largely, or depend upon others for ideas?"

"By no means. Every man and woman is self-made. Every writer should be especially so. Let him look into his own heart, and write from it, if he would reach the hearts of his readers. He may gather information and incidents from books and from every-day life, but when he writes, let it be in his own words. Above all, let him write honestly, delineating people and things as they really are, not as a vivid or romantic imagination might make them."

Our social talk ended here. May I not be allowed to add that constant study of the best writers of old English has given a certain stateliness of expression and dignity of speech to the composition of General Wallace, which will not fail to be noted by the careful reader. The volumes he read were the very choicest, and the stalwart heroes of that olden time were the boy's daily companions instead of men and women.